Kit shook his head, and did not come closer. “What would I not give for the same?”
«Mortals are everso clever. And you tell stories. Sooner or later one of you will tell the story that will set me free. That will make Him to love me again, for He cannot forgive me my trespasses as He is, and I cannot be content without Him.» The angel sighed and looked away. «Why should such as I care what story that is?.»
“A lover’s quarrel, Lucifer? That’s all?”
«What is more divine than love?»
Kit hadn’t an answer. He balled his fists again, freshening the drip of blood, and came to the center of his prison. “Forgiveness,” he said, and smiled. “Forgiveness is more divine than love, my lord Lucifer. That was Faustus’ fatal flaw too, thou knowest. I’m always startled how few understood.”
«That Faustus could not be forgiven? Mustn’t the fatal flaw come from within and not without?»
“No,” Kit answered. “He could have been forgiven. Anyone can be forgiven, who repents. Faustus had opportunity, time, and chance to repent, again and again and again. But he never meant to. Never meant to repent, my lord Prometheus.”
«Then what was his fatal flaw, Sir Poet?» Lucifer’s eyes sparkled. He tilted his head aside, lovelocks drifting against the exquisite curve of his neck. Enjoying the game.
“‘But Faustus’ offence can ne’er be pardoned,’” Kit quoted. “‘The serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus.’ Faustus’ flaw was the sin of Judas, who deemed his transgression too great to repent of, and thereby diminished the love of God, who can forgive any offense, so long as the sinner wishes forgiveness. Faustus sinned by hubris. I for one had always thought it plain, but they say the playmaker is the last to see the truth in any play–”
«Hubris, my love? And is that thy sin as well?»
Kit laughed. “No, not my sin. My sin is not hubris. My sin is love, in that I love my sin too well to wish to repent of it. I am not Faustus.” He looked up into Lucifer’s cerulean eyes. Read my mind now, Lucifer Morningstar.
The angel blinked once, considering, and the barest part of a frown creased the corners of his mouth. His wings expanded on a breath, a slight wind stirring. He nodded once. «Wilt come with me, then, Christopher Marlowe? And comfort one another in our exile, until the world shall change?»
Kit’s laugh hurt, sharp edges that cut the tender inside of his throat. “Even thou–”
«Even I?»
“Even thou hast forgotten my name.”
«Come with me. Let me be thy shepherd, and bring thee from this dismal place.»
Kit turned in the open circle of Lucifer’s wings and let his eyes rove over the seeping stone walls of the abandoned well, the rough round shape of the scold’s bridle kicked into the corner, the dank and odorous earth under his feet. “No,” he said thoughtfully.
«Kit?»
No.” He couldn’t quite manage the defiant glance over his shoulder and the lift of his chin he would have liked, but his voice stayed steady and that was a victory in itself. “No, my love. Thank thee. I’ll do it on my own.” And then he turned away again, blood oozing from his fingers and the flutter of Mehiel’s approval like a heartbeat in his breast, and waited for the light to fade around him.
The first touch of returning agony came as the darkness told Kit he was alone. Golden wings, golden eyes, a dream of memory and warmth as Kit dropped to his knees, body clenched around a scream he was still too proud to give voice. «God loves a martyr, Sir Poet.»
God’s welcome to get himself fucked too.
Act V, scene xii
Came he right now to sing a raven’s note,
Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers,
And thinks he that the chirping of a wren,
By crying comfort from a hollow breast,
Can chase away the first‑conceived sound?
–William Shakespeare, King Henry VI Part II,Act III, scene ii
Ben and Tom were shuffled back to Tom’s study – over predictable protests, for which Will felt a great deal of sympathy. But he would not permit them to stay in Faerie without the assurances that he held, when any amount of time might pass them by in the mortal realm.
Once they had parted company and Murchaud had brought Will through to the Mebd’s palace, Will slumped to the floor of Murchaud’s night‑shadowed chamber and buried his face in his hands while the Prince went about, lighting candles that failed to lift the gloom. Murchaud unlaced his outer sleeves and drew them off. He tossed them carelessly across the foot of the bed and began unbuttoning his doublet with fingers he stopped to massage now and again, as if they ached. Will watched in fascination a Prince–still moving like an old man–playing his own body servant. “Your Highness, are you well?”
“Iron‑sick,” he said, in a tone that brooked no more questioning. “London is full of the stuff.”
Will nodded. “What do we now?”
The Prince shrugged on a woolen jerkin in deep blue, with golden knotwork. He leaned back against the wall. “We beg my mother for help.”
The white tree on the bluff over the ocean was hung with icicles like curtains of glass, creaking faintly in the wind. Morgan’s cottage, once they passed through the icy, snowless beech wood, was white as bone and black as aged oak among the weathered stems of the garden. The gnarled canes of ancient roses twisted about the crimson door, woven tight as the withy hurdles the farmers of Will’s youth used to keep sheep properly divided in the pastures.
Despite the biting cold, the door stood open and a big, shaggy copper‑colored dog lay across the threshold, the crochet‑hooked tip of his tail flipping deliberately. He rose as Will and Murchaud approached and ambled into the cottage, turning once to glance over his shoulder and prick alert, shaggy ears covered in the same luxurious coat that swayed about him when he moved. A moment later, Morgan stood framed in the doorway, the dog leaning his cheek against her hip and watching with gaze bright through a fall of hair. She shaded her eyes with her hand against the wintry sunlight and called out. “I was not expecting thee this morning, O son. And in such company.”
“We have a bit of problem, Mother,” Murchaud interrupted. “Master Shakespeare has witnessed Sir Christopher taken captive by the Prometheans. We must find him – ”
“ – quickly, if he is to live. Thou didst try with seeking‑motes? And consult the Darkling Glass?”
Murchaud pursed his lips at her, one eyebrow rising. Will made himself meet Morgan’s eyes past the Prince’s shoulder. “Thank you your tisanes and tinctures, madam, “he said. “They have made a difference.”
She met the gaze for a moment, then snorted and dropped a restraining hand to the dog’s neck. “Come in. Come in.”
Will followed Murchaud through the doorway and was most thoroughly inspected by a canine nose along the way. Inside the cottage it was warm as summer, despite the open door –another touch of Morgan’s homely magic – and sweet‑smelling cakes were baking on the hearthstone, their crusts just golden‑brown on the side closest the coals.
Morgan crouched to turn them, moving quickly to keep her fingers from scorching, and stayed crouched by the fire long enough to fill a kettle and hang it on the kettle‑arm. She stood and turned around. The dog observed her from his post by the door, whining a little.
Murchaud rattled down three mugs and set them out on a bench while Morgan measured herbs into them. “Scrying by water, do you think? Or by the cards?”
‘If the Glass won’t show it, water won’t,” Morgan answered, measuring herbs into the mugs. “And the cards are not suited for questions with – definite –answers. So I fear we will have to find someone to ask.”
“Ask?” Will said. The trickle of steam from the kettle’s spout became a jet that stood out eighteen inches. He moved forward, taking a square of toweling from a wall peg to shield his hand, and poured for all three of them, ignoring the twinge from his bruises.